Those of you who followed my demented ramblings about the untold fun of infertility and IVF may have noticed it’s been a little while between posts.
76 weeks to be precise.
Admittedly, this is a trifle tardy. No, I didn’t drop off the face of the earth, I simply became a pregnant person which made my musings on infertility a tad obsolete.
After finally achieving my longed for pregnant state, I suffered a severe and debilitating case of writers block. In all honesty, it wasn’t so much writers block as the fact that with conception came stupidity. I became dumb. So very, very dumb. We’re talking George W. Bush dumb, here.
So to those of you wondering… yes, The Truffle was born. In March 2008 I gave birth to a 3.1kg bundle of yum.
This is he a few days old.
That very day it become clear that I had made my first (alleged) mistake as a parent while naming our son. As we announced to all and sundry that The Truffles post fetal moniker was Rafferty… all and sundry replied as follows;
“It’s a stupid name!”
“Are you sure?”
“But isn’t it a dogs name… why don’t you call him something normal like Jack?”
Strangely, I have never met a dog named Rafferty – though I have met several hundred called Jack. But I digress. The net result was that by naming my son Rafferty I would disadvantage my poor child before he had even left the hospital. Seriously, it was such a travesty I’m surprised DOCS weren’t called in to intervene. Without the constructive and helpful feedback from our acquaintances and friends our poor child was destined to live a life of abject horror and deprivation because we weren’t selfless enough to give him a name shared by 25,000,000 other children.
Regardless, as we are clearly evil and destined to be terrible and wicked parents, we stuck with Rafferty. Thankfully, one year later, the world hasn’t stopped spinning on it’s axisand Rafferty has survived his naming intact and is perfect in every way. Amazingly, there are even people, whose opinions we respect, who actually like his name and agree that it suits our raffish little Devilboy to perfection.
Before I continue, I’d like to take the opportunity to thank those helpful people who were so negative in those first few days whilst I was overwhelmed by postnatal self doubt and new mummy anxiety and have this little message for them. “You wanna name it, you give birth to it! Oh, and fuck off!”
Why didn’t I write after Rafferty came along? Partly because after delivering my baby and living without anything resembling slumber for quite some time I became even dumber. In fact, there are chimpanzees who, with the help of some flash cards and a few hand signals, have better communication skills than did I at the time. Plus, I had important gazing and cooing to do at my delicious little baby . Quite frankly, I had nothing to say that didn’t involve my beloved offspring and I figured that no one wanted to read another self indulgent mother’s blog about the tedious minutiae of their babies existance.
So what’s changed? Not a lot. My brain is slowly regenerating and I am now probably capable of enjoying discourse with the aforementioned monkeys and, on occasion, I even valiantly attempt articulate conversation with sentient human beings. I still don’t have much to talk about other than being a stay at home mother/ freelance media whore and my treasured little man. But when a terribly clever and articulate friend whose opinion I respect told me I should get back to it, I had a rethink and decided I would – if people don’t want to read about my adventures with the lovely Devilboy they don’t have to. It’s not compulsory.
Whilst I will no doubt dribble on endlessly about babies (and mine in particular) and parenthood, think of this less as a gushing festival of mummy mush and more as me reccoiling in horror at the media’s fixation on yummy mummy’s – like women don’t have enough body image issues already without being expected to look like an airbrushed Kate Moss before they’ve even cut the umbilical cord. The reality for the newly mummmyfied is more of a bloated and hollow eyed fembot, with admittedly gigantic bosoms (though said bosoms will undoubtedly be leaking) who is more likely to fall asleep covered in baby vomit and finds time for something as washing when the Earth, Sun and Moon are perfectly aligned.
Expectations of immediately donning the Jimmy Choos to strut our svelte and sexy stuff are insulting and unrealistic and we should embrace our sensationally sloppy sleep deprived selves and just enjoy our new babies.
My other gripe is the avalanche of uninvited advice, criticism and lack of respect that one receives, seemingly as a matter of course, after becoming a parent. Where once I was seen as a mildly funny, thinking human female – I am now glared at with abject horror when attempting to make light of motherhood and am seen more as a nameless incubator for a small person… and an imbecile. It’s been so long since anyone actually addressed me by my real name I may have to change my driver’s license to read “Raff’s Mum” so as to not confuse people.
I will confess my parental shortcomings, frequently, for there are many and I am unashamed.
I am prepared to confess that I am a bad mother because I played The Clash and Iggy Pop instead of Beethoven whilst my baby was in the womb and because my son has yet to hear or see Bob the Builder but jiggles excitedly to Bob Dylan while he eats his breakfast. I am a bad mother because vegemite sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and tea – though allegedly should result in him being as bright as bright can be – does not a balanced diet make. I am a bad mother because I sometimes feed him to sleep and when no one is looking sneak him into bed next to me so I can cuddle his warm soft little body while he snoozes. I’m a bad mother because occasionally I read to my son from trashy magazines instead of educational children’s books and because I can’t help but laugh when he does something naughty… and let’s not forget that I am a very, very bad mother because I gave my son ‘a dogs name’.
I may also confess to loving the above little man more than life itself.
I realise that being more of a slummy than yummy mummy carries with it the risk of being condemned by some but at a time when so many people live to pass judgement and an army of childcare ‘specialists’ are discovering fab new ways to be a teribble parent every day… I’ll take my chances.
For those who want to hear more about the adventures of the delicious Devilboy and his terribly naughty mummy… stay tuned.